


unforgiven

by penrosequartz



Category: Constantine (2005)
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Demons, Depression, Emotions, Fallen Angels, Humor, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Las Vegas, Living Together, M/M, Mortality, Nonbinary Character, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2020-10-29 18:41:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20801141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penrosequartz/pseuds/penrosequartz
Summary: John Constantine is not a stranger to strangers; he’s not surprised when he hears several sharp knocks on the door of his apartment at 2AM. He just hopes that the neighbours don’t complain again.He is surprised to discover that the dishevelled, shaking, disoriented figure at his threshold is Balthazar.OR: A demon from John's past is mortal, unbearably annoying, and disrupting his life.





	1. an unexpected arrival.

**Author's Note:**

> more tags tba. this will probably be quite sad, with spots of humour and a happy ending, ideally. maybe don't expect regular updates. things are rapidly going downhill around here.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> enter balthazar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for discussion of a suicide attempt (will probably go into more detail around this later in the fic).

John Constantine is not a stranger to strangers; he’s not surprised when he hears several sharp knocks on the door of his apartment at 2AM. He just hopes that the neighbours don’t complain again.

He is surprised to discover that the dishevelled, shaking, disoriented figure at his threshold is Balthazar.

His hair is sticking to his forehead with sweat, his eyes glazed and flickering from red into brown, like the light behind them is going out. His hands are twitching. John almost doesn’t recognise him at first, and if he’d seen him on the street he would have presumed he was an addict, or perhaps schizophrenic. Not that John could lecture anyone on addiction (or seeing things, for that matter). 

It is, however, as he studies the silhouette lining the entry to his home, unmistakably Balthazar - the jawline, the usually-crisp-now-crumpled suit, the coin clutched in his fingers like it’s the keys to the kingdom. John notes that instead of his usual demonic currency, it’s a tarnished, red-stained quarter.

The demon collapses onto him and stumbles inside, barely making it to the dining room table before he passes out - although John doesn’t know if he could call him a demon, because the sigils carved into his doorframe should have at least bothered Balthazar. He didn’t seem to pay attention to them at all (though that might be because he was preoccupied with the shards of glass piercing his skin, all over his body).

Glass, John believes, does not cause much of an issue with demons. Demons also don’t generally bleed, and Balthazar has smeared it, bright and unyielding, all over his door.

This is the first in a long sequence of clues to the reasons behind Balthazar’s unexpected arrival.

* * *

John can hold a grudge like it’s nobody’s business, but he’s not a perpetually unforgiving man. This is why Gabriel, neatly dressed and stretching their back, wanders into the kitchen the next morning. They’ve made a den of various household objects and soft materials, almost a pillow fort, in Constantine’s laundry. He’d said, at the time, that it was a temporary solution.

Gabriel has been living in the laundry for almost a year.

It’s not that John can’t put his foot down when it comes to homeless celestial beings - Gabriel is just very handy around the apartment, oddly good with taxes, and now pays half the rent without complaint. How they’ve managed to hold down a job, John doesn’t know. The entire situation is quite remarkable, even for someone with a life like his.

The stumps of cartilage protruding from Gabriel’s back had detached themselves a few weeks in, leaving behind slowly-scabbing wounds and a large depressive episode for both of them. With nowhere to go and nothing to do, Gabriel had found a position at a local corner store, and routinely shoplifted items to bring back to John as ‘gifts’. It was odd, but appreciated.

A rhythm had been established.

And now, one quiet Saturday, it is being broken.

* * *

John wakes to the sound of shouts, and when he catches a glimpse of the dining room, he begins to laugh.

Balthazar is tied to a chair, Gabriel standing over him with a knife, and honestly, the angel looks exactly the same as they did when they were about to cut Angela open and inflict the Devil’s son on the world. John shouldn’t laugh, really - but he does, because everything is so ridiculous all of the time.

“John!” Gabriel points their blade at Balthazar’s face, right between his eyes, and turns to face him, “This demon broke into your home. Shall I finish him off?”

There is something deadly about Gabriel that John has never been able to put his finger on. Perhaps it is because, in his peripheral vision, he occasionally sees eyes glistening over the angel’s arms. Maybe it is the way they walk. Where did they get that knife?

John heaves a sigh. The amusement has left the situation.

“We talked about this,” He makes his way towards them, and delicately removes the weapon from the angel’s grasp, “You’re mortal. You can’t kill them.”

“I can try,” they hiss out, narrowing their eyes.

John would like to see Balthazar dead - proper dead - and buried somewhere awful. But his curiosity has always been a weakness, and he desperately wants to know _ why. _

Why is Balthazar here?

Why does he look like he’s been to hell and back (is it because he has)?

And, most perplexing of all, why is he bleeding?

From under his heavy eyelids and greasy, bloodied hair, Balthazar slides his gaze towards John. There’s something beneath his expression, something raw, something real; he looks almost ashamed, almost terrified. It’s quickly covered by his trademark smirk, but it _ was _there - John makes a note of it.

“Johnny boy,” Balthazar drawls, and John steps between the demon and Gabriel as he hears the angel snarl.

“Gabriel,” John says evenly, “Thank you for the help, but I’ve got it under control now. You can go.”

“Oh, one night stand?” Balthazar snickers, “Sleeping with an archangel, that’s very naughty.”

“It’s not a one night stand,” Gabriel bites out, “I _ live _here.”

“Oh, even better!” Balthazar exclaims, seemingly thrilled by such a scandal even as he winces. There is still glass embedded in his arms and legs; John had left him sprawled at the kitchen table last night, and had gone back to bed.

Gabriel, disgusted, grabs their bag from the floor and leaves.

“I’m getting breakfast at work, I suppose,” they mutter, before slamming the door.

_ “Work?” _ Balthazar wheezes.

“Drop the act,” John snaps. He catches sight of Balthazar’s quarter, lying by the stove. He wonders where the demon got it. From the sidewalk? Stolen, with deft fingers, from a purse or jacket pocket?

“What are you doing here?” John continues, “Why are you covered in glass? Why are you bleeding, Balthazar?”

The demon glances down at himself.

“Oh,” He says, mildly, “I suppose I am bleeding. It doesn’t feel particularly pleasant, you know, all these things sticking in me.”

John raises his eyebrows and keeps the dirty joke to himself. Balthazar, rather out of character, also doesn’t take advantage of his own comment, and continues to stare down at his arms, then his legs, then the floor.

“It’s been a year,” John says, “Why are you here?”

The demon does not answer.

Well, if he has to torture it out of him, so be it. John digs around in a kitchen drawer for a bottle of holy water, and dumps it over Balthazar’s face.

There is no reaction whatsoever, besides an irritated expression.

The demon meets John’s eyes as the exorcist buckles onto a chair.

“Constantine,” Balthazar says, strangely genuine, “I had nowhere else to go.”

“You’re mortal,” John shakes his head, closes his eyes, “No. No, no-”

“Constantine.”

“First Gabriel, now you? No. Absolutely not,” John clenches his fists tightly, and wills the world to go away. This is not his responsibility. This is not his problem.

“Constantine.”

“I am not some halfway house for rehabilitating- no, this is insane, you tried to _ kill _me, why would you come here? You can’t honestly be so naive to think-”

“Constantine!” Balthazar begs, and John opens his eyes to the most honest and desperate look that he’s ever seen on a demon - that he’s ever seen on anyone.

“I had _ nowhere _ else to go.”

John sighs again, and nods slowly.

“I know,” he replies.

Maybe he does have a weakness for homeless celestials, after all.

* * *

John spends the rest of the morning picking broken glass out of his unwanted guest’s arms, face, legs, and back. Balthazar’s hands are so cold that they shake, fingers knocking together like ice in a whiskey glass, and the demon’s - man’s? - demon’s hair falls in his eyes and makes him blink, over and over, like a newborn deer, wide-eyed and innocent.

Somehow, John thinks, this must be a trap, but he knows in his heart that Balthazar is telling the truth. It’s a far scarier scenario than another of Balthazar’s tricks. He almost hopes he’s wrong, that he’ll be ambushed any second now, that there’ll be a knife to his throat the moment he lets his guard down. He doesn’t want to have with Balthazar what he has with Gabriel. He doesn’t think it’s even possible.

More than anything, he doesn’t want to see the face of the demon who killed his friends ever again, let alone _ often. _

He hasn’t forgiven Gabriel, per se, but it’s far easier to forget about it when their face wasn’t the one attached to the deaths of Hennessy and Beeman, even if Balthazar did commit those deeds on behalf of the angel. On behalf of Lucifer. On behalf of- whatever the point of it all was. Even looking at Balthazar makes his stomach turn.

“Spit it out,” The demon says, as John is untying him from the chair, trying to get at his lower back with disinfectant.

“What?” John frowns.

“You want to yell at me, don’t you?” Balthazar cocks his head to the side, “Don’t you want to punch me in the face? Gut me for killing your friends? You’re really going to untie me? Aren’t you worried I’ll hurt you?”

John takes a step back.

“Do you have a deathwish or something?” He asks incredulously.

“Come on, Johnny boy,” Balthazar grins madly, the honesty in his eyes still present, but tainted with something frenzied, “You could end me right here. Send me to Hell for realsies, this time.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” John gestures to the cloth in his hand, “I’m patching you up, I gave you- I gave you fucking_ band-aids _, and you think I’m gonna kill you?”

Balthazar looks away.

“What happened to you, Balthazar?” John hates him. Of course he does. But he’s intrigued, suspicious, maybe a little pitying.

“What happened to _ you? _” the demon growls, “The Constantine I knew wouldn’t hesitate for a second to put me back where I belong. Did you get soft?”

John almost snaps, but the quiet, desperate violence in Balthazar’s voice is flashing like a warning sign in his head, and the demon still isn’t meeting his eyes, glaring at his own hands like he’s trying to will himself out of existence.

I’m afraid that trick doesn’t work, John thinks, and smiles sadly.

“What did you do?” John indicates Balthazar’s wrecked suit, “Couldn’t find a balcony to leap from, so you had to go out a window?”

“Jumped in front of a car,” comes the quiet response, and in spite of himself, John’s heart aches.

“But you weren’t entirely mortal yet,” John recalls, thinking back to Balthazar’s faltering pupils, “You’re lucky you’re still alive.”

“Am I?” Balthazar asks, his intense eyes settling on John’s once more, the madness fading, a heavyhearted lustre taking over.

“Are you what? Still alive, or lucky to be that way?” John shakes his head, “You can stay for a bit. I don’t know how Gabriel will take it. But you’re certainly alive, Balthazar, and at least for a little while, I’d like to maintain that.”

* * *

Needless to say, Gabriel does not take kindly to the new addition to the household.

“I can smell him. Why is he still here?” They hiss, somehow making stirring a mug of instant coffee look threatening.

“I want to see if he has any information,” John replies steadily, “Besides, he’s cuffed. He’s not going anywhere.”

“Information,” Gabriel rolls their eyes, “Like you grilled me for three months? I didn’t know anything, he’ll know less than me. Let me kill him now and you’ll never have to think about him again.”

“His interrogation will be…” John reaches into his pocket for his chewing gum, “Accelerated. No killing, please, at least not yet. If you deserve a second chance, he at least reserves the right to an apology. Or some sarcastic last words.”

“Gabriel!” Comes the smooth voice from the bathroom, where Balthazar is uncomfortably attached by his wrist to a towel rail, “I hear you’re working! Tell me it’s a brothel.”

The angel snarls, and throws John a dirty look, “I’m getting takeout. Chinese. If he’s not gagged by the time I get back, I’m going to Angela’s.”

John shrugs. Chinese is okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you liked this, let me know! more is hopefully on its way.


	2. dreams.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which balthazar has nightmares and john has a case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is a bit in here where john says that gabriel and balthazar aren't angels or demons anymore, they're just people. TECHNICALLY, this is true, but i still refer to them as "demon" and "angel" mostly because it's how they see themselves, and also because it's convenient. hope this doesn't confuse anyone!

He gives it his best shot, but it’s like talking to a brick wall. All of John’s instincts are telling him that Balthazar knows approximately _ jack _ about _ shit _ \- no secret magical protection hacks, no shortcuts out of demon deals, no previously unknown exploitable weaknesses - and, if there’s anything John Constantine has learnt over the course of his life, it’s that his instincts are usually correct.

He leaves the bathroom with the threat of setting Gabriel loose on Balthazar (unless the demon shuts his mouth), and sits down to slowly pick at his chow mein.

“Did he tell you something awful?” Gabriel asks, “Do you not like noodles now? What?”

“Nothing,” John shakes his head.

“Like hell it’s nothing-”

“No, he-” John puts his chopsticks down and tries to erase the image of Balthazar - hopeless, dangerous, throwing himself in front of a car - from his head.

“He told me nothing,” He finishes, “He doesn’t know anything.”

“What did I tell you?” Gabriel exclaims, “Can I kill him now?”

John stares at his chow mein for several moments before settling on a reply.

“Why do you hate him so much?” He glances into Gabriel’s eyes.

The angel sputters.

“Why do I- he’s a demon, John! Why don’t _you _hate him? He killed your friends!”

“On your orders, right?” John gently pushes his chow mein towards the centre of the table, “Angels, demons, it doesn’t matter. You want to know what I think?”

Gabriel purses their lips and frowns, their expression tight, “Enlighten me.”

“I think you don’t want him here because he reminds you of your mistakes,” John says, “And you’re scared he’ll remind me of your mistakes, too.”

Gabriel shakes their head and stands, taking their plastic container from the table, “Whatever makes you feel better about having a demon in your home.”

John lets his mind drift, and grabs his chow mein back. Of course he still likes noodles, he's not letting them go to waste.

“He’s not a demon,” he says, picking up his chopsticks again, “And you’re not an angel, not anymore.”

Gabriel stills.

“You’re just people,” John finishes, and he knows that it is the truth.

* * *

John checks in on Balthazar at 8PM, then at 3AM, then at 8AM. As far as he can tell, the demon sleeps the entire time, seemingly untroubled by the cold, hard floor and awkward position he’s in. It’s not that John doesn’t trust him (although, of course, he doesn’t), but that Balthazar has yet to eat or drink anything. Perhaps it hasn’t occurred to him that he needs to eat, or maybe he’s trying to starve himself - either way, when John checks in again at 10AM, he’s glad Balthazar is awake (if only because it means John won’t have to check his pulse or pour water down his throat).

He’s shivering slightly, but he’s grinning, and he looks so small that John can almost believe he’s innocent. Or, if not innocent, then at least remorseful. The hand that’s not attached to a towel rail trembles, and Balthazar’s attempt to roll a coin across his knuckles comes out stiff and unsure, instead of flowing, instinctual, and confident. 

“Where’d you get that?” John asks, gesturing to the small metal disc.

Balthazar’s smile only widens. Perhaps John is mistaken, but it seems that the desperate edge of yesterday’s pleading is gone, replaced by a familiar, hungry gleam. How human is the demon now, exactly? John tries not to think about it.

“You hungry?” The exorcist pulls the cuff keys from his pocket and waves them at Balthazar.

“For you, Constantine?” The demon’s tongue flickers out of his mouth, “Always.”

“Christ,” John shakes his head, “If you want me to keep you alive, you better shut the fuck up.”

Balthazar does.

* * *

When it comes to general human life, Balthazar is nowhere near as proactive as Gabriel. Every attempt by John to get him to _ do something, _even just go for a walk (supervised), is thwarted easily, and replaced by a) more sleep or b) the internet. John could change his laptop password, if he wanted to - but online pool seems to be the only thing occupying Balthazar’s mind, apart from consecutive nights of nightmares, and increasingly longer bouts of staring at the ceiling.

It’s concerning, to say the least.

John has never been over-sympathetic; Chas, Beeman, Hennessy, and now Angela and Gabriel - these are the people he cares and has cared for. They can fit on one hand. On occasion, Midnite may be included. John, in the past, has told himself over and over again that the problems of other people are not his problems, especially when those other people are not on his “I reluctantly care about you” list. Even since his lucky break of a second chance, he hasn’t been particularly inclined to show excessive kindness to strangers, let alone demonic assholes.

Yet, over the week that Balthazar has been in his apartment (now sleeping in the living room on a shitty mattress, borrowed from a perplexed Angela), John has come to several realisations:

  * It is unbelievably hard not to care about someone when you’re living under the same roof as them.
  * It is doubly hard when they are clearly not dealing with anything in particularly healthy ways.
  * It is triply hard when you consider that the way you are looking at them right now may have been the way others looked at you.

Overall, John fears that he may be stuck with a depressed ex-demon (fallen? risen?) for quite some time.

* * *

Gabriel and Balthazar slowly get used to each other.

It’s kind of sweet, actually. Gabriel teaches him how to use the microwave, and Balthazar explains how to do his signature coin trick, hands still shaking. John routinely presses hot beverages into Balthazar’s grasp, but the chill never seems to let up. The rhythm begins again, faltering, new, awkward, like a just-born creature attempting to stand.

The celestials still snap at each other, and there’s moments when John catches Gabriel staring at him, while he’s staring at Balthazar, but it’s normal, it’s acceptable.

It’s good.

The demon still sleeps twelve hours a day, but John thinks the hot water bottle he gave Balthazar is helping with the nightmares.

Christ. Hot water bottle. And he gave it to a demon. What is the world coming to?

An end, apparently, is the answer to that question - or at least according to the hysterical woman on the phone. John gets word of a case in Vegas and packs his stuff; urgency is necessary in regard to this particular adventure, and he has no idea what to expect either when he gets there or when he gets back. Will it be a ghost? A vampire? Will he need to pack extra socks? Will Gabriel have left Balthazar bruised, bloody, and twitching on the floor of the dining room by the time John gets home?

He has a momentary lapse in common sense, and decides to bring Balthazar with him in order to avoid that particular outcome. It doesn’t occur to him, in his haste to leave, that this means he’ll have to spend an extended period of time alone with the demon; it’s only when he gets into the car that he realises his mistake.

It’s not that Bathazar is necessarily unbearable.

He showers regularly, doesn’t run his mouth like he used to, quietly obeys instructions around the house, and hasn’t tried to slit Gabriel’s throat in their sleep, which John considers a win. But it’s all of this combined that makes spending time with Balthazar off-putting; he’s so far removed from what he used to be that John finds it physically unsettling. He’d much rather have to punch Balthazar in the face every few seconds than sit through more of the deadspace stares the demon occupies himself with. Eyes glazed, hands still shaking, freezing, trying in vain to get the coin to roll over the back of his hand.

And then there’s the name thing.

Apart from the occasional “Johnny boy” when he’s feeling extra sarcastic, Balthazar refers to him as Constantine (when he talks at all). Emotionless. Cold. It’s like John is watching the demon’s soul wash away.

The worst thing of all, John thinks as he starts the car, is the nightmares.

He steals a glimpse of Balthazar sitting to the right of him, watching the world through the passenger side window, as if he’s the last man on Earth, observing grains of sand in an hourglass. John’s not an idiot, he knows depression when he sees it - he’s lived it. And this one is… pretty bad.

The nightmares are different.

John used to dream about horrific things, lurking in the dark, hiding under his bed, waiting for him to make a wrong move. Later, he dreamt of Hell, the heat of it, the stench of death and blood and pure noise. The dreams that Balthazar gets are not like John’s, not quite. They’re violent, emotional, awful - if they were physically present John could imagine them sat atop Balthazar’s chest, choking him, drawing out sounds of agony and prayers for mercy.

They’d come for the demon slowly. The first few nights, no interruptions woke John from his sleep. Now, for five straight days, sudden yelling, the exorcist bursting into the bathroom to shove Balthazar awake, dump water on him, warm mugs shoved into freezing, freezing hands, again and again. Sweat and tears painting the face John had once hoped to never see again. These dreams are indescribable; he’s never seen anything like it. He’d almost be fascinated, in a scientific sense, if it wasn’t so troubling (and inconvenient, for those who need at least some semblance of sleep).

Yes, John is troubled by Balthazar’s nightmares. Vaguely intrigued. Slightly irritated.

Very cautious.

If Balthazar is dreaming about something he’s afraid of, John wants to know what it is. It could be important, it could be big. It could be clowns. But he’d like to know.

With one more glance at the despondent figure to his right, John puts [a cassette Chas gave him](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2lfD5rEstyYXqf04OXqCXL?si=K4JW7TJkScqIO_k056RmQw) into the player, and resolves to ask Balthazar once they get to Las Vegas. It’s going to be a long five hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> before you ask, yes - the cassette IS a playlist i made for this fic. i'm as disappointed in myself as you are.  
wolf like me is an extraordinarily good song, though.


	3. vegas.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> heat! alcohol! feelings! a dead girl!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note: even though the movie was released in 2005, and set earlier (i believe?), this fic is set in modern times. i wanted john to have an easily portable laptop and capable mobile phone. also, as much as i love the early 2000s, i was a toddler at the time, so my memory of that period is murky, to say the least.  
that said, john does have a cassette player in his car. as far as i know, there are still relatively modern cars with cassette players (a 2010 lexus being the last), and even if there wasn't, he'd still have a cassette player. why? because i like cassettes, and so does john constantine.

Vegas is awful; full of shining lies and sticky alcohol and mistakes made out of hopelessness - in other words, it’s exactly as John remembers it. He doesn’t mind the odd card game, and drinking (admittedly in a far smaller quantity these days) is still something he does reasonably often. Vegas, though? Not his scene. Everything is too glittery, and it hurts his eyes.

He’s incredibly glad that his car air-conditioning still works, because it is _ hot _. They’re in the middle of a desert, so it’s to be expected, but he always forgets to pack shorter-sleeved shirts. Now he’s going to suffer.

“Why is Vegas like this?” He groans to himself quietly. If the metal of the car wasn’t so hot, he’d bang his head against it.

“What do you mean, Constantine?” Balthazar grins, spreading his arms wide, gesturing to the bustling city around them, “This is wonderful! Always been one of my favourite places on Earth.”

“You don’t say,” John rolls his eyes, heaving his suitcase out of the boot of the car. He won’t lie - it’s nice to see Balthazar smiling, warmth emanating from him, that endless chill in his fingers temporarily pushed away by the brutal summer sun. The demon’s mood had slowly picked up as they drove on, and by the time John pulled up outside the lobby, Balthazar’s eyes were shining with excitement. The exorcist would never say it aloud, but those eyes reminded him of a child’s - wondrous, awestruck, impossibly bright.

“So easy to get people to sin, here,” Balthazar gives John a wink, and honestly, what is that supposed to mean? He’s too exhausted to decipher any cryptic flirting right now. He’s just driven for five hours (lucky break avoiding rush hour, if he’s honest), and all he wants to do is collapse onto a hotel bed and read up on his case.

“Get your bag,” John nods at the car, waving a valet over. 

“This is quite upmarket, Constantine,” Balthazar observes, when they finally make it into the cooler air of the hotel.

“Yeah, well,” John reaches into his pocket for his gum, before realising he left it in the car, “All expenses paid. I kept the gas receipt.”

_ Shit, _ John thinks, _ Now my gum will be melted._

* * *

Rationally, he knows he shouldn’t let Balthazar raid the mini-fridge, because he’ll probably get into the little bottles of vodka they so temptingly supply. But who is he kidding? If Balthazar wants to get smashed, whatever. There’s probably worse ways of coping - it’s certainly a step up from trying to throw himself in front of a car. Smashed, yes, but not literally.

John tunes out the rustling of chip packets and clinking of glass, and pulls out his laptop. He quickly discovers that the name the client gave him is a fake, which he already suspected, and that the apparent paranormal death he’s investigating is, in fact, officially closed by the LVMPD. According to a newspaper article, the death of Lily Parks (the given pseudonym being “Rosa James”, what a riot this rich-ass family is) occurred over four years ago.

Suspicious circumstances were officially ruled out. It was a suicide, plain and simple. Christ, John might feel old, but he’s definitely still too young to have seen this much death.

As expected, Balthazar is a little tipsy by the time John finishes stalking the Parks family. 

“All expenses paid?” Balthazar queries, flicking through the TV channels on the huge screen in front of him, “Let’s buy all of the pornography on offer. And then smash the television!”

“I don’t think so,” John scowls, but his heart’s not in it. Whether it’s the heat, the client-supplied photograph of Lily lodged in his memory, or the strange kind of pity he feels for the demon, he can’t stay mad at Balthazar’s antics for long. It’s almost like impotence, except possibly even more frustrating. He collapses on the couch and holds his hand out for the remote, which is given to him with a pout.

“I realise this is your first time being drunk, given that you’re mortal now,” John navigates his way to MSNBC, muting it, “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Oh, I’m just getting started,” Balthazar smirks, “It could be my first time for other mortal things, too, if you’d like.”

John can feel the demon’s eyes boring into his skull, but he does not turn to face him. For some reason, his usual witty comebacks are gone from his mind. Where did they go? Is he too tired? Is having a demon and angel, even “human” ones, in close proximity to him for so long somehow damaging his psyche? John doesn’t like this.

Unwillingly, he slowly meets Balthazar’s eyes.

Oh, he doesn’t like this at all.

“Gambling,” is what comes tumbling out of John’s mouth, “Ever played blackjack?”

* * *

He’s alright. John almost expected him to be better, given that he’s, well. A demon.

Balthazar loses $100 and then wins $200, and then loses that - John would say it was worth it, though. The look on the demon's face when he won. The shock. The determination to win again. The raw feeling of it sparking against John like an exposed wire, John’s hand on his shoulder, John’s voice in his ear. Eventually, the demon is too drunk to keep playing in any kind of civilised manner, and John picks him up and drags him back to the hotel. It’s only 6PM, so the exorcist calls room service, and by the time the food arrives, Balthazar is once again curled on the couch.

“Any more of those little spirit bottles left?” He asks, and he sounds quiet again, retreating into his shell once more. John curses himself for letting Balthazar drink so much. Now, he fears he might never see that happy glint in his eyes again.

“The only spirit you’re getting is the ghost we’re busting tomorrow,” John replies, and gives him water instead.

“Ghost?” Balthazar cocks his head to the side.

“Rich family, owns the casino we were just in, along with a dozen others,” John pulls the coffee table closer to the couch so he can eat his steak, “Daughter died four years ago. Apparently their mansion - yeah, _ mansion _\- is haunted. At least, that’s what it looks like. Thought maybe a vampire at first, they reported a couple of symptoms of hypovolemic shock.”

Balthazar looks at him quizzically.

“Uh,” John struggles to tear his eyes away from the demon’s expression (what is wrong with him today?), “Caused by mass blood loss. But they didn’t say anything about puncture wounds or marks of any kind, and those symptoms can also be caused by excessive spirit interference, so. Ghost it is.”

“Right,” Balthazar pauses, “Am I expected to tag along?”

John frowns, “What else are you gonna do, mope around here? I’m not giving you more gambling money.”

“No,” The demon shakes his head, “I’ll come, if you want me there.”

John hesitates.

“Yeah,” he answers, “Just don’t fuck around.”

* * *

When John gets out of the bathroom, after a long, mostly cold, largely self-exasperated shower, Balthazar is staring at the photo displayed on John’s still-open laptop. He’d left it like that in case the demon wanted to play pool, but apparently, he’s more interested in the dead girl.

_ Typical, _ John supposes, _ He probably thinks she’s hot. _

As he steps further into the room, he notices that Balthazar is crying.

“Jesus,” John murmurs, “What’s wrong?”

“It's... Lily,” Balthazar wipes his face awkwardly, “Sorry, it- the Parks family, that’s- that’s the case?”

A stone heavier than plutonium drops into John’s stomach.

“Why?” He asks, dreading the answer.

“It was me,” Balthazar stares down at his own hands, tears falling onto them like wartime bombs, “I’m the reason she’s dead.”

John says nothing, stays rooted to the spot, emotions fighting inside his head. He killed her. He killed her. He killed her.

“What’s happening to me, Constantine?” Balthazar asks, desperately wanting answers to his own feelings, “I can’t stop crying. Why do I feel like this?”

And no matter how much sympathy John feels for the demon, no matter how much sick pity he harbours, no matter what his torrent of feelings for Balthazar consists of - the fact that the demon is asking about himself? About his own problems? At a time like this?

The storm raging inside John blinks out and presents a single, unified emotion: anger.

John grabs his jacket, wallet, and a key card, and leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i originally intended for this chapter to be longer, but this seemed like a good place to end it. i, above all people, was not expecting this to turn into a case fic, but here we are. tag added.  
also, "rosa parks", "lily james".


	4. 5 promontory pointe lane.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> local super-rich family is a little scary. teenagers scare the living shit out of john constantine. our favourite exorcist goes ghostbusting. where is balthazar?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i took the "occasionally" tag out from behind the "humour" tag, because i laughed for ten minutes this morning at some of the things in this chapter (and in my planning notes).  
apologies if you or anyone you know lives in summerlin.  
just kidding, i hate you. and yes, brendon urie lives there. sorry brendon, but you too are going to the guillotine.

Emotions are funny, temperamental things. Sometimes unbidden, often irrational. John tries not to worry about it when he feels oddly intense ones, especially if he can’t find the cause; after many long periods of feeling nothing at all, he’s almost grateful to be overwhelmed.

Anger, his original reaction, he thinks was justified. But this?

John crosses his arms over his chest and stares down at his lukewarm, watery, 7/11 coffee, the city still awake and alive around him, a beating heart in the centre of a desert where everything is dead.

But that’s not true, is it? The desert is beautiful. Even driving here, John was once again amazed by the quiet grandeur of it, the life blooming in shrubs and crevices across the dirt. Vegas is leeching that life out of it, polluting the air, spreading its suburbs outwards. In that way, John supposes, it’s not a heart, but a tumour.

This deep, unexplainable, creeping feeling of loneliness, of dread, of misery - he would exchange it for explosive, violent rage any day. It's like fingers of winter, lacing around his neck, even in the height of the warm season. It’s something dark, something bitter; qualities John wishes his coffee possessed right about now.

Despite it all, he huffs a short laugh, and tips the entire cup onto the soil of a small palm tree by the sidewalk. If he’s not going to caffeinate himself, he might as well water a plant.

“There you go, buddy,” he says quietly, “You deserve it. You probably get thrown up on once a week.”

Balthazar is not present when John inevitably returns to the hotel room. He didn’t know what he was expecting. An apology? No. An explanation? Yeah, that would have been nice.

_ Whatever, _ John thinks, _ Fuck it, I’ll go to bed and deal with this in the morning. _

He falls asleep several hours later having exhausted most scenarios involving Balthazar’s whereabouts, made a list in his head of questions to ask the Parks family, and wondered extensively about the possibility of Gabriel having bought 50 more succulents by the time he gets back to Los Angeles. He absolutely does not overanalyse his feelings towards Balthazar.

* * *

Summerlin is… nice?

He hates it, with a burning passion - full of rich white families with snobby children and various celebrities with huge sticks up their asses. But it’s a green-ish suburb, lots of parks, and it’s a little cooler than the city due to the height. He hates it, but it’s nice.

And the mansion is huge.

He goes through several gates to get to it, and a security guard with a severe, expressionless face, mumbling into his radio and nodding at him curtly, allows him to travel up the driveway. John has been to places like this before, but few of them could boast the same views, or even the same disgustingly excessive expenditure. John has never had a lot of money, but he can appreciate certain levels of wealth, from Midnite’s luxury back room to a nice sports car.

There are _ three _ sports cars out the front, and John would bet - if he was a betting man - that there are more in the garage. That’s just going overboard.

He navigates his way past the Jaguar, and parks his considerably less expensive, but probably more useful, vehicle.

He’s greeted nicely enough by someone he presumes is employed by the family, not a member of, and is introduced inside to a middle-aged man and woman, along with two teenagers, all smiling on cue. Inside looks exactly the way he expected (grand, fashionable, a tiny bit awful), everyone is dressed the way he expected (grand, fashionable, a tiny bit awful), and everyone speaks and acts the way he expected (grand, fashionable, a tiny bit awful). John has never felt so let down - he was hoping at least for an angry, bitter grandfather, but apparently that guy's already dead. There’s a large oil portrait of him in the corridor.

“Heartbreak, over our Rosa,” A woman’s voice explains as John gazes at it.

“So, you're the one who called,” John looks her over as she pauses her descent of a staircase, one leading up into the rest of the house. She seems dangerous, in the way people with immense power often do, and those heels are killers.

She nods, before glancing at the small gathering of people below, “My husband, and our children. My sister. This way please, Mr. Constantine.”

She leads him into what appears to be some sort of boardroom, with a long table and a view of the city, and closes the door behind him.

“You didn’t honestly think a pseudonym would fool me?” John asks, placing his briefcase and laptop bag on the table.

“No,” The woman replies, pulling out a chair for herself, “But you never know who could be listening these days.”

John nods. She has a point.

“Take a seat,” she ushers, “As I told you, we’ve been experiencing some disturbances. Amelia saw shadows, Mark and Sofia have both heard noises late at night.”

“Mark is your husband, and Amelia is your…?”

“Daughter,” The woman nods, “Sofia is my sister, Daniel is my son. Lily - you already know, I suspect - was my eldest. And I’m Nicole.”

“Nice to meet you, Nicole Parks, if that’s your real name,” John says, stretching out his hand, “John Constantine. Tell me about the health symptoms you described.”

Nicole smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Headaches, nausea, rashes,” she says, “A bit lightheaded. Everyone seems very down.”

_ Rashes_, John thinks, _ That’s interesting. She didn’t mention that on the phone. _

“It’s a big house, Nicole,” John stares out over the city, “Noises could be made by anything. Coyotes, maybe. Shadows, well - sometimes people think they see something when they really don’t. I don’t think you would have called me out here unless you really thought there was something weird going on.”

Nicole pauses.

“The power keeps going out. We talked to the neighbours about it, and talked to the administrators here, but there’s no record of any outages. Nothing tripped the circuit breaker. The lights just flicker out, it’s been happening for weeks. They can’t figure out what’s wrong. The batteries keep draining, too - cars, phones, clocks. It’s very inconvenient.”

“Right,” John nods, “Well, sounds like you could be haunted. Mind if I take a look around?”

“Of course,” Nicole nods, “Are you staying for lunch?”

“I wouldn’t want to impose,” John replies, opening his briefcase as she leaves the room, considering what equipment to use.

_ Well, when there’s something strange in the neighbourhood, _he thinks, and pulls out his EMF meter.

* * *

Wandering aimlessly about the house, John’s thoughts inevitably turn to Balthazar. Where is he? What is he doing? Is he murdering someone right now? Did he really kill Lily? Is he moping at a poker table, or doing cocaine off a stripper’s back?

More importantly, what is John doing? Does he have some kind of feelings for the demon that encompass more than vague sympathy and quiet disgust? Why did his mind go so blank at Balthazar’s sexual innuendo? Why does he care if Balthazar is with him or not?

It’s all so frustratingly complicated that John barely notices he's approaching a door, marked “LILY” in large, purple lettering.

It’s not locked.

Although he can’t shake the feeling that he probably shouldn’t go in there, he pushes it open anyway, and is greeted by a large, surprisingly messy, colourful bedroom, walls plastered with posters, and shelves cluttered with figurines. The desk is covered in paper and pens, books stacked in the corners, notepads piling up.

On a corkboard hung nearby, sketches of elves and dragons are pinned up with thumbtacks. One of the drawings catches John’s eye, and he slowly walks towards it.

A grey humanoid shape fills the page, bony limbs, hollow eyes...it’s not detailed, not by any means photographic, but…

John reaches for the paper, tilting it upwards to the light.

“Lord of the Rings,” comes a voice from the doorway.

John turns. It’s the youngest child, Nicole’s son - David, was it? No, Daniel.

“Sorry to intrude,” John begins, but the teenager shakes his head.

“It’s fine,” Daniel gives him a small, tight smile, eyes scattering over the room, “It was her favourite book, she used to read it to me.”

John lets the sketch fall back to the corkboard.

“How old were you?” He asks.

“Eleven,” Daniel replies, “She was always very troubled. Hardly anybody comes in here anymore. It’s kind of nice to see her stuff now and again.”

“Why do they keep it like this?” John wonders aloud, “Surely it must be painful.”

“I think Dad wants to remember her as just… a normal teen, you know? Without all the baggage,” Daniel looks over the corkboard, “Man, I forgot how good she was. There’s Smaug - that’s the dragon. Bilbo and Legolas, he’s an elf-”

“I’ve read the Lord of the Rings,” John huffs, “I know who Legolas is.”

“And Gollum,” Daniel gestures, “Creepy, huh?”

John nods silently. Gollum, of course. Maybe John’s just seeing things that aren’t really there; it had almost looked like a soldier demon.

“Do you miss her?” John asks, Balthazar’s face returning to his mind, the way he’d looked on that first night, covered in blood and broken glass.

“Sometimes,” Daniel acknowledges, “Mostly I hate her.”

“What?” John frowns down at him. Moments ago, the kid had sounded so nostalgic, so kind. Now his tone has a bite to it.

“She left us, didn’t she?” Daniel scowls, “See, this is why I don’t come in here. I expect it to be sad, but I just get angry at her for being so weak.”

“Hey,” John grabs his shoulder, “Listen. Your sister was not weak. Hey, look at me! Your sister was_ not _ weak.”

Daniel shrugs his hand off, “Whatever.”

As the kid leaves the room, John observes his surroundings once more. The warm yellow cushions on the bed. The quietly-ticking blue clock on the wall. The large X-Files poster above a crumpled beanbag, displaying a quote from the TV show:

_ “A lie, Mr. Mulder, is most convincingly hidden between two truths.” _

“I want to believe,” John says to himself quietly, “No EMF readings, even in here…”

He pauses, ready to go back to the hotel to research a bit more, and hopefully have a conversation with Balthazar.

“I think I would have liked you, Lily.”

* * *

The lights go out just as John is making his way down to the front door (why they even have their lights on during the day is a mystery to him).

“So much for lunch, the fridge is off now!” Nicole laughs oddly, “Will you be back soon, Mr. Constantine?”

“Sure,” John wrestles his laptop bag strap over his shoulder, “Maybe later today, maybe tomorrow. I’m going to read up on some stuff. Hopefully this ghost will be out of your hair in a couple of days, tops.”

“Can’t you just… exorcise it?” Nicole purses her lips.

“You don’t exorcise ghosts, you banish them,” John corrects, “And they can get pretty specific. I’ll need to figure out what exactly we’re dealing with, and then get all the stuff I need for the spell.”

“Oh, I didn’t realise it was so complicated! Do you need any extra compensation? We could send a car next time?”

“I prefer to drive myself, if you don’t mind,” John nods politely at her, “I’ll bill you.”

As he steps out the door, he almost collides with Mark, Nicole’s husband.

“Woah there! Sorry about that,” the man beams at him, “How was ghost hunting?”

“Uneventful,” John replies, extending his hand, “I’ll let you know when I’ll be coming back.”

“Ah, I got some grease on my hands,” Mark shakes his head, “I should probably clean up that garage.”

“I imagined you’d have people to do that for you,” John side-steps him, “Excuse me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from my planning notes:  
"checks all around the perimeter for ghost signs. absolutely fuck all."  
the mansion is [real, by the way.](https://www.realtor.com/realestateandhomes-detail/5-Promontory-Pointe-Ln_Summerlin_NV_89135_M29677-62034#photo20)  
and i know the ghostbusters use a PKE meter, but that's just a step too far. come on.


	5. man(?)hunt.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> balthazar still unaccounted for. local super-rich family is still scary, and also increasingly weird. john goes to dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i apologise for such a short chapter. more is coming, slowly but surely. i can do it. i want to believe.  
happy halloween.

Balthazar, once again, isn’t present when John returns to the hotel. The exorcist hadn’t intended on staying long, he’d just wanted to grab a couple of things from his bag - but the lack of evidence of Balthazar’s movements, the absence of his cold, shaking hands, John’s own voice playing like a broken record in his mind…

_ Do you miss her? Do you miss her? Do you miss her? _

It’s too much. John can’t avoid the conclusions he promptly jumps to, and he can’t ignore how readily he jumps to them - can’t pretend he isn’t at least a little worried about Balthazar. John’s anxieties about leaving the demon to his own devices have warped from sick, drug-filled, blood-lust fantasies to broken, lonely, dead-in-an-alleyway stress nightmares; he wants to know Balthazar is safe, and it’s awful, caring about people is fucking _awful._

What if Balthazar is being hunted by the mob? What if he really fucked up? What if he’s sitting in some cell waiting for John to bail him out? What if-

It occurs to John that Balthazar is (obviously) not mentally stable. What if John’s abrupt exit somehow pushed Balthazar over the edge? What if the demon is gone now, permanently? What if John never sees him again?

Half of John’s mind thinks, _ Well, good riddance, _ at the same time as the other half thinks, _ Oh, shit. _

He looks all over the place, and he’s not sure if he’s relieved or terrified that there is absolutely no sign of Balthazar anywhere. He’s not in the casino they went to, and he’s not in any of the others on the strip; he’s nowhere in the hotel, not facedown in the pool or collapsed in the sauna; he isn’t being held in any of the closest precincts. That had been an awkward, shifty question to be asking the cops - have you seen an attractive, slightly off-putting man, probably wearing expensive leather shoes and a horrendous jungle-printed shirt?

Nobody relevant seems to have seen the demon, which means nobody John can think of has killed him, and that will just have to do for now. After several hours of searching, the exorcist throws in the proverbial towel (it’s a beach towel, and it has “FUCK HIM, ANYWAY” printed on it in big red letters). Balthazar is either back in LA somehow, completely gone from John’s life for good, or dead.

John tries to tell himself that he’s okay with those options.

It only mostly works. He’s a pretty good liar, but he’s not _ that _good.

* * *

There’s a voicemail left for him when he checks his phone in the late afternoon, denial and anxiety clinging to him like the heat that’s sticking to the city. It’s Nicole. Her voice tings through the phone as a digital birdsong, asking him to dinner, telling him not to fall prey to mediocre room service and the evening news.

“We’re all still distraught over Lily, Mister Constantine,” she sounds choked, but hardly emotional - or perhaps that’s just John overthinking it, “We hope you can join us tonight. It’s the anniversary tomorrow.”

She hadn’t mentioned it when he was at the house, but John supposes it’s a private sort of situation. Why would they want him there? He can’t comfort them. He has nothing to tell them. He can’t say with confidence that their house is haunted, and he certainly can’t tell them it’s their daughter that’s haunting it. He’d meant to do research, and instead he was sidetracked by his own- well, not _ feelings _for Balthazar, but concern.

Concern counts as a feeling, possibly.

Whatever.

He checks through several databases of lore for anything involving headaches, nausea, rashes, _ and _ power outages, but all he finds is a mismatched collection of different kinds of ghosts, and one specific kind of ice spirit that’s native to Antarctica. As he turns the temperature down on the air-conditioner, he snorts. There’s no way an ice spirit is haunting a house in Summerlin.

Eventually, he texts Nicole to tell her that he doesn’t have any new information. She replies quickly; “No matter, come to dinner. Always room at the table.”

John shrugs. They may be rich, and probably dodgy, and definitely not the kind of people he’d like to spend an extended period of time with, but dinner is dinner. And they’re buying.

* * *

The attitude wealthy Americans have towards waitstaff is something John has never been able to comprehend. It’s a combination of contempt, and cold, sharp expressions; there’s a prioritisation of speed and efficiency, and a total intolerance for any kind of error. He finds it uncomfortable to watch, and even more disgusted by the fact that he’s dining with the people so readily and unnecessarily berating this poor girl.

“It’s alright, really,” John stands, smiling in what he hopes is a comforting way at her quivering expression, then crouches down, gathering the larger chunks of glass strewn across the floor. The whiskey shimmers under his shoes. 

Pity. He was looking forward to that. It may have made the evening more bearable.

The Parks family are civil, vaguely morose, a strange synthesis of glittery politeness and almost-false melancholy. The more time he spends with them, the more he feels that something isn’t right. Perhaps they are distraught, perhaps they are… somehow faking it? Or maybe they are just super-weird, super-rich people. He’s been around enough wealthy families to know that there are things about them that are simply incomprehensible.

John awkwardly pats the girl on the arm and tells her to get a mop, and gestures for another waiter to assist her. When they’ve finished cleaning up, with some attempted help from John, he turns to Nicole.

“There wasn’t any need for that,” he tells her, and really, he doesn’t even try to keep the distaste out of his voice.

“She made a mistake,” Nicole purses her lips, “She needs to learn from it.”

John drops the subject, sits down again, lets his mind drift as they begin to discuss the latest episode of some television show, the latest celebrity scandal, the latest Presidential fuck-up. Balthazar’s tear-stained face drifts in and out of his mind.

There’s a sudden hush at the table. Nicole begins tapping her fingers nervously on the white cloth, a quick _ thud-thud-thud _that drums into John’s mind. Without any preamble, she stands.

“Time to leave,” she smiles at him. The rest of them rise as well, making their way to the door.

“What about the bill?” John frowns.

“Oh, we own this restaurant,” Mark informs him.

John’s not entirely sure if that’s the way it’s supposed to work, but he doesn’t know enough about restaurant management to argue. 

As they make their way out of the restaurant, two men in suits enter. Nicole nods curtly at them.

“All of the televisions are off, Mrs. Parks,” One of the men says, knowingly glancing around the walls of the building. He’s right. John hadn’t even noticed, but there are indeed black screens positioned around the room.

“Sometimes you get tired of the endless news cycle,” Nicole narrows her eyes, “Especially when most of it is lies.”

“Indeed,” The man replies, “Enjoy your night.”

The second man, who hasn’t spoken, catches John’s eye as the exorcist leaves. He looks him up and down, calculating some mysterious question that John doesn’t understand.

_ There is definitely something weird going on with this family, _ John decides. He wonders who could help him puzzle it out. Possibly an unnamed, attractive-yet-volatile, missing-in-action demon, with an apparent connection to the Parks’. 

Possibly.

* * *

He tries to keep his mind as case-focused as possible when he gets back to the hotel, skimming over the facts in his brain as he gets ready for bed, attempting to quiet the raging energy in his bones. The idea that the family could be lying to him in some way, small or large, and the idea that he could be falling for it, is making him vibrate with frustration. The kind of frustration you feel when you can’t solve a Rubik’s cube, or when you just had your phone, but now you can’t find it anywhere. John senses that he’s missing something, something huge and obvious, but he has no idea what it is. It’s killing him.

He wishes he was psychic, Hollywood-style. Able to read minds. Knowing everything at his own convenience.

Instead, he gets monsters routinely haunting his dreams, and occasionally, his waking life as well.

The idea of falling for a trick warps when his mind drags itself back to Balthazar once more. John can’t deny that the demon is enigmatic. There’s something about him that gets under John’s skin, something so different as a mortal, and yet so similar to what he was like before. The charming grin, once so easy and self-assured, now either false or extremely hard-won. The sarcasm and flirting now with a bite beneath them, the realisation of mortality tainting the words with morbidity, with realism, with genuine desperation.

John wonders, again, if it’s all some elaborate game, meant to draw him into a trap. But that doesn’t make any sense. If Balthazar wanted to kill him, he would have done it already. If he wanted to ensure John’s eventual descent to Hell, he would have… well, John’s sure he would have done _ something. _

An image comes to him, unbidden, of Balthazar grinning at him.

“You think I’m messing with you, Constantine?” The voice of the demon echoes around his head, and suddenly the mental concoction is too close, too warm, too unbearable.

“Does it seem like I’m messing with you?” John can almost feel Balthazar’s breath, can imagine the heat of him, the lines of his body. 

“Jesus Christ,” John shakes his head, attempting to dispel the sick fantasy. He needs to take a shower - a cold one - and go to bed. Balthazar is missing. John has no idea where he is. This is not the time for jacking off in a hotel room.

Nevertheless, the white sliver of Balthazar’s smile stays with him, burning itself into the back of his eyelids. The water is warm, the shampoo is nice, the shower is spacious; John only has so much resolve.

It’s over embarrassingly quickly. He goes to bed feeling guilty and troubled, but most of all, like he’s missing something - and not just some obvious, case-related clue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please leave a comment/kudos if you are enjoying!


End file.
